Prompts: HP-MCU
by nightgigjo
Summary: A collection of ficlets and partial chapters inspired by Tumblr prompts, chiefly from putthepromptsonpaper (some potentially from writeworld). HP/MCU crossovers of all stripes, which may eventually make an appearance in larger fics. Generally post-Hogwarts; other points of canon divergence will be noted for each chapter. Rated T for the time being.
1. Chapter 1: Returning

Avengers Tower had never been what you would call a quiet place. Even in the wee hours of the morning, there was usually someone about, tapping on a StarkPad, taking quiet sips from a mug of coffee or tea, working a bag or flowing through a yoga routine. Beyond that, there was the constant background hum of electricity, the whirr of fans in the air vents, the

In thirty-five years, it had never been still. Now, it was. The silence echoed. The machinery that was, in essence, the flesh and bone of the place was all on standby. They wouldn't be needed today, nor for a long while. The tower hadn't been Avengers HQ for a couple of decades, not since Tony's retirement when he'd passed the Iron Man mantle on to younger, more resilient shoulders. Few of the original team had stayed on; some had settled down elsewhere, others simply dropped off the radar.

Now, with Tony gone, there were just the two of them left. The common area was dark, save for a handful of candles clustered in the center of a large worktable. She'd clung to that organic means of producing light from the day she'd arrived; it had morphed from barely-humored eccentricity to unquestioned habit long since. The light flickered and spun as only fire can, and the dancing flames lent her companion's face a bit more vivacity than the artificial illumination generally used everywhere else. In the candlelight the colorless dermal layer took on a warmer hue, almost a red-gold, and rendered the inner workings of his robotic body less visible, the ducts throughout appearing as dark purple veins under the skin.

He hadn't left her side that night. The slow walk back from the grave site, ascending to the upper apartments in the lift, pacing through the dim and barren halls so she could deposit her coat in her room: all had come to pass in Jarvis's company. As unobtrusive as always, he nevertheless remained nearby, and if he were standing closer to her, the difference would be measured in microns - not that she needed to measure it.

As she took her customary place at the large oak table strewn with parchments and the odd quill, Jarvis hesitated. Automatically he had begun to turn, to make his way through to the workshop as habit dictated, but the loss jarred him, too. He was frozen, absolutely motionless. When he didn't move for a full minute, she hazarded a guess.

"Jarvis," came her voice, cracked with disuse, "is something wrong?"

The AI remained motionless, but spoke nonetheless. "I…" he managed in a hushed tone, "I do not know what to do. It is…disconcerting."

Hermione took a gloved hand in hers, and gave it a gentle tug. Jarvis turned to look at her now, irises glowing golden in the candlelight. He cocked his head slightly before recognizing the invitation to sit. He took the place just opposite, leaning his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers to rest his chin on them, much has she had seen Tony do, especially in his last few weeks. Jarvis blinked a few times in the silence that stretched between them. His pupils focused and unfocused, as though watching images move in and out of the distance, which she supposed he was doing, after a fashion. After a while he fell still again, amber pupils again focusing on her face. At last, he spoke. "Are you sad, Miss Granger?"

Hermione tiredly propped herself up, hand resting on one cheek. It was complicated, this feeling. "I am, Jarvis. Among many other things."

Jarvis nodded succinctly, then frowned. "Why do I feel…empty?"

Hermione let out a light sigh, and reached out for the AI's hands, which met hers across the table. "That," she said, "is loss. And grief." It was her turn to search her memories, for those early years during the war, when everything was new and overwhelming. Those sorrows were deeper that this one, but even they had faded. "It does not leave you, not entirely. They are gone, and there is no bringing them back. You will always miss them."

Jarvis closed his eyes, letting his hands come to rest on the table in front of him, her smaller, weathered hands still enclosing them. "It feels wrong," he replied at length. "I continue to think that I should be in the workshop. I know that if I go in, he will not be there." Jarvis's mouth tightened. "And yet, I feel as though he is there, as long as I do not go in. It is completely illogical."

In spite of herself, Hermione gave a rueful smile. "That is a common reaction," she said, "and completely human."

Jarvis's expression did not change, but then she hadn't expected it to. He was not given to outbursts. It had surprised her, though, given the nature of his creator. Tony had claimed he couldn't remember how he'd done it in the first place. Over the years, Hermione had pieced some of the story together. Jarvis's creation had been the result of innumerable tiny disasters: Howard's prolonged absences, Tony's constant showing-off, trying to innovate enough to get his father's attention, then his parents' deaths just before his final semester at MIT. Tony had snapped, gotten black-out drunk, and disappeared into his workshop for more than a week. When he came out, Jarvis was up and running – and learning.

And now, he was learning to grieve.

A/N: Obviously this is non-AOU compliant; it is also (as my fics are generally), EWE.


	2. Chapter 2: Introductions

Fury's black leather trenchcoat flapped behind him as he swept into the interrogation room, just in time to see two agents depositing their captive none-too-gently on the metal chair on the other side of the table. Her dark hair was wild, spiralling out from her head in all directions, framing the taut brown face of a woman who couldn't be much older than 30. She had a light graze on the side of her temple which seeped gently, and a trickle of blood had left a thin trail down the hard line of her jaw. Otherwise, she appeared unharmed, despite having survived the vicious explosion which had taken out the better part of three city blocks. She sat ramrod straight, chin lifted, golden-brown eyes full of fire. Fury lowered himself into the chair and leaned back. At a slight flick of his hand, the agents dutifully flanked her chair.

"Director Fury," she said, before he could open his mouth. "I'd been hoping to make your acquaintance. You are a difficult man to track down."

"And you are?" he demanded, voice all sharp edges.

"Tyto," she replied lightly, British accent smooth and refined. "It's not my real name, of course, but I'm afraid it will have to do, for now."

The furious tapping of keys came over the comms as Agent Hill's voice crackled through his earpiece. ' _No known HYDRA agent or program using that codename, sir. Operative is an unknown.'_ There was a click as Fury clenched his fist around the arm of the chair. The agents behind her stood even more at-attention. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence stretched out from Agent Hill's side of the comm. ' _I'll...keep looking into it, sir_.'

Fury gave a barely perceptible nod. "Well, 'Tyto'," the man rumbled, the creases near his eyes deepening slightly, "your name isn't nearly as important to me as the fact that you somehow passed through a wall of fire the size of a freight train without so much as a singed eyebrow. Perhaps you could tell me how you managed to do that."

"Now, Director," she demurred, "time is precious, and you want to waste it with interrogations."

"As far as we can ascertain, nothing and no one survived that blast, except you," Fury replied. "Now, that strikes me as exceptionally odd, and I make it my business to find out about odd little things like that."

"Why I survived that blast is simple, Director, I was at its epicenter," she explained, "attempting to stop it from happening."

"So you know who was behind this attack?" Fury nodded for her to continue.

The woman nodded assent. "I do, to some extent. I've been tracking their movements for some time. Now, if you would be so kind as to release me, I could continue my pursuit."

"Tell us what you know about them," he offered, "and we might just be able to do that for you."

"Oh, that I highly doubt, Director," she countered, but without malice. "Not for lack of trying, I am certain, but these…terrorists…are quite used to running under every radar, including yours. The only reason you are not currently out on a wild goose chase after some other poor felon, is that I was there in time to blow their cover story. They didn't have time to both blow up that building and keep their cover, so they chose the former."

It was Fury's turn to be nonchalant. "I would be more impressed with your daring acts of sabotage if we hadn't managed to pick you up before you regained consciousness."

At this, the woman frowned slightly, the first expression she'd shown besides blythe self-confidence. For a split second she started to bite her bottom lip, but her unconcerned exterior returned just as quickly. "I had a choice," she explained, "to escape, or to let you find me." Again, a wry half-smile played about her lips and disappeared. "As I said before, you are a hard man to find," she concluded, settling back into her chair with her arms crossed lazily over chest, "so I thought it best to let you find me."

Fury didn't bother to disguise his skepticism this time. "Better the devil you don't?"

The woman shook her head immediately. "Certainly not. But I understand my quarry. Their modus operandi is, in all but the rarest of circumstances, self-preservation. I knew they would not risk taking me with him, if it lowered their chances of escaping. Your lot were simply too close - they couldn't risk it. Dragging an unconscious body with them would have slowed them down just enough, I think," she speculated, then gave a quick shrug. "Certainly they thought it. Besides," she said offhandedly, "letting myself fall into your hands was imminently safer than enjoying their company."

"That still doesn't explain how you survived the blast," he remarked.

"I am a woman of many talents, Director Fury," she stated, "but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any of them."

Fury turned a stern one-eyed glare on her. "I don't make a habit of letting complete unknowns wander around without some kind of supervision." At this the woman pursed her lips, but said nothing, so Fury continued. "Now, it may be that you are what you claim, and maybe you're not. But if you really were tracking people as adept at avoiding our notice as you claim, then you obviously have something going for you. If you're really that good, SHIELD might just have a use for you."

The woman answered him, stare for stare. "Let me go," she stated baldly, "and I'll show you exactly how useful I can be."

 **A/N: Prompt courtesy of writeworld.**


	3. Chapter 3: Let's Go to the Movies

_**A/N:**_ _Dear Reader: I've actually had this snippet written for more than a year, although I was waiting to have the rest of the story built around it before I posted._

 _Some context: Loki, depowered, finds himself stuck on Midgard in Wizarding Britain, of all places, under the insistent care of Harry, Hermione, and Co. The action takes place in roughly 2010 (certain film releases being slightly ahead of schedule in this universe, ahem). The Hogwarts crew are all in their late 20s/early 30s (save Sirius, who is late 30s, see "A Way Forward"). Loki is, as calculated, slightly over 1,000 years into a 5,000-year lifespan, which puts him in somewhere in late adolescence in MCU. They've taken the youngster under their collective wing, shall we say.  
_

 _I believe this little romp does stand alone enough that I could post it now, as a preview of sorts for what I eventually hope to complete. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy. - Jo  
_

* * *

Loki could feel the first twinges of his magic returning - or regrowing, as Harry had put it. They were faint - modest, even - but he could detect their tentative advance like the first wisps of an evening fog, or silvery dew on the cusp of frost.

He had spent months now, in the company of these Midgardians, these _humans_ , as they called themselves, and although he was monstrous, they had treated him with respect - not fearfully, but…kindly. He was as different from them as it were possible to be, which should have made him anathema. Instead, they spoke with him as with each other.

They had made no effort to reconcile him to his looks. It would have been futile, in any case. This was still the face of childhood bogeymen, and it stared at him in the mirror. Loki closed his eyes on the image, wishing fervently that his magic would return enough to at least relieve him of this particular torture.

When he opened his eyes, they were a luminous green.

* * *

Hermione was watching for him, when he returned. She understood how much the Jotunn hated himself, and that knowledge bore anxious fruit.

She almost didn't recognize Loki when he rounded the corner of the stair, and strode into the sitting room. His formerly slicked-back mane was falling loose around his shoulders now, and the tattoo-like ridges on his face had receded, fading into a thoroughly human-looking exterior. His skin was the color of porcelain, but with a warm hue. He moved with an arrogant impudence, which was a far cry from the involuntary skulking he fell into whenever he was conscious of being in his Jotunn form.

A faint tinge of crimson rose to his cheeks when the entire room burst into applause. Hermione grinned, in spite of herself, and Sirius beamed as proudly as a new father. Before Loki could object, Harry stood up and strode over, to clasp him firmly by the hand. "Oh, well done!" he chortled. "This calls for a celebration!"

At once, Harry had everyone's expectant attention. Hermione caught the twinkle in his eye; she knew what that meant even before he trumpeted it: " 'Let's all go to the movies!' "

It took some time to explain to the rest of the company what 'the movies' was, in any case. All her wizard-born friends had heard of the cinema, but had never been. The honoree fairly dragged his feet when he understood that he was to be subjected to a night on the town - not just a Midgardian town, but a Muggle one, to boot.

"Why would I deign to attend one of your thoroughly pedestrian entertainments?" Loki scoffed.

"There's magic in it," Hermione retorted primly, refusing to give any further explanation.

As Hermione went up to the window to purchase their tickets, Loki hung back from the others. No one was making a forced effort to include the pallid young man, but every conversation left room for him to join in. When she returned, she handed out the tickets, and turned to lead the disparate group into the theater.

"Wait," Loki snapped as he glanced at the bit of card she handed him. "Is this some sort of joke?"

A wry smile spread across Hermione's face. "Let's just say that when I read the reviews, I thought of you." Harry and Sirius exchanged a smirk, but revealed nothing.

They filed _en masse_ into the dark theater, which was mercifully devoid of squealing children. As they sat, the house lights went down.

"Was that supposed to happen?" Sirius whispered. Harry murmured confirmation, and Loki gave a scowling huff.

"Sitting in the dark," he grumbled. "How very entertaining." Someone in the row shushed him, and he rolled his eyes.

Hermione bent his ear. "Just watch," she said. "It's not _exactly_ magic, but it can be almost as good."

The music began when it was still dark. Loki slumped in his chair, arms crossed, looking for all the world like a truant schoolboy who'd been dragged back to his desk. Hermione laid her hand on his sleeve the moment the first animated snowflakes drifted across the screen. Loki's frown deepened in the faint silvery-purple glow of the opening credits, but he'd stopped growling, at least.

Men's voices chorused to the sound of ice saws. The scene was set.

"Singing?" Loki muttered. "I don't believe this."

"Shhhhhhhh."

By the time they got to the biggest musical number of the show, the one that had been playing on Muggle radio stations for weeks, Hermione had been pre-empting his grumbles for nearly three-quarters of an hour. As the opening notes of the song tinkled and the main character began the hushed introduction, Hermione turned to Loki, ready to shush his next complaint.

It didn't come. Loki's head was turned slightly toward her as if he would have spoken, had some force not stopped his tongue. His eyes were fixed ahead, following the figure on the screen with a look of guarded apprehension on his face. As Hermione watched, the music swelled, taking Loki with it.

Maybe there _was_ magic in it, after all.

They watched the rest of the film in relative silence. Once the closing credits began, most of the group got up and left the theater, chatting animatedly, but one member of their party was conspicuously absent. Loki sat, transfixed, eyes gazing at the screen, but focused far away from the endlessly scrolling names.

The rest of the group was huddled near the exit doors, when Loki exited the cinema, lost in thought. Hermione caught sight of him as the doors swung shut, and her startled gasp caused the others to spin around, and someone started to giggle.

Loki frowned in confusion. "What's so funny?" he demanded of the crowd of them.

None of them seemed able to speak. Harry and Hermione were giving him a knowing glance, while Luna looked off into the middle distance. Ron looked surprised, and Neville just looked uncomfortable. Sirius (the giggler) was trying to regain his composure, and failing spectacularly. Ginny rolled her eyes at the lot of them. "Loki," she asked, matter-of-fact, "what happened to your hair?"

He had opened his mouth to protest when he caught his reflection in the darkened plate glass window. His hair, gleaming in the neon lights, had fashioned itself into a waist-length plait the color of snow.

Stifled chuckles erupted into raucous guffaws as the Asgardian first blanched the same blue-white as his hair, then blushed crimson. He was turning awkwardly, as though uncertain whether to fight or flee, when Hermione stepped up, catching his sleeve.

"Come here," she said, "out of the light. See if you can change it back." Grimacing, Loki stepped out of the cinema's glare, and in a moment the shadows grew slightly darker than before. He emerged, his hair returned to its usual color and length.

Sirius slapped the taller man on the back. "Good film, eh?" he grinned.

Loki bristled at the jibe, but Sirius shook his head fondly. "It's a good sign, you know. Stuff like that used to happen to me as a kid, when my magic was first developing. Regulus used to tease me about it. We've all been through it." Affirmative nods went around the circle, and talk turned to childhood escapades, and away from Loki's embarrassing display.

He was, to his astonishment, _relieved_ to be out of the spotlight. The irony of this struck him almost at once - the relief he felt, being ignored, instead of being made much of, or being reviled.

As he drifted along through the darkened city streets, a few paces behind the others, Loki noticed that, occasionally, one of the group would lean back, or take one or two fewer steps, and say a word to him about nothing at all. He was becoming used to Hermione gauging his mood, and Luna's invariably bizarre pronouncements, but those he could dismiss as quirks: unrelated actions of two individuals, meaningless gestures, most likely born of habit.

And yet, there were seven of them now, their movement as random as motes of dust in the afternoon sunlight, gently constant, yet too ephemeral for concrete examination.

What was oddest to Loki was that they never seemed to _want_ anything from him. When he thought of himself in relation to Midgardians (when he thought of Midgardians at all), it was always as those first moments on the plaza in Stuttgart: himself, in glory, far above the cowering masses, their eyes searching his face in terror, beseeching mercy, glaring defiance. In an orderly universe, they would surround him as the Nine Realms encircled Yggdrasil, all in their proper place, and his to command.

Now Loki was surrounded by Midgardians who weren't worried by his presence, but who _also_ didn't demand it. This kind of reception he could not fathom, a fact which unnerved him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

"They're not afraid, you know," came a voice at his ear.

Loki's eyes flashed briefly red in the dark. "What kind of fools aren't afraid of a monster?"

Luna's lamp-like eyes met his sardonic expression. "Of course they're afraid of monsters," she said simply, "if they see one."


End file.
